The girl who fakes smiles (and the one who noticed)
by Zephyroh
Summary: This is one of the first skill you aquire. Pretending. Faking. Concealing. Your mother taught you without even knowing it. You are six when you notice for the first time. /Set during Season 1.


**The girl who fakes smiles (and the one who noticed)**

This is one of the first skill you acquire. Pretending. Faking. Concealing. Your mother taught you without even knowing it. You are six when you notice for the first time.

It was a Sunday afternoon at the monthly neighbourghood party which was happening in your house. The adults were talking loudly with each other – you didn't understand their conversations. You didn't bother to try. You were sitting next to Frannie who was also talking with her friends and you were listening to your father. He was telling a story. The others were laughing from time to time. You remember him saying something – you can't remember exactly what – but you recall noticing your mother stiffening and clenching her jaw. But then you remember her smiling at your father who was laughing with the others and you felt it wasn't right.

The same evening, you remember seeing your mother pouring herself a drink alone in the kitchen.

That was the first time you noticed. There were many after.

* * *

The first time you do it, you are eight.

You had Santana and Brittany over. You spend the afternoon playing in the yard but when Brittany fell and hurt her knee, you went inside, picked up crayons and paper and did a drawing contest. There's one particular drawing you were really proud of. You spent time on the details and the color. You felt pride when you looked at it. After the girls left, you started tidying up the living room – they had left their drawings on the table. Your father came in, he ruffled your hair – you didn't like it but you didn't say anything – and he picked up a few drawings. You noticed he was holding yours. Without realizing it, you held your breath. He laughed. ''I'm guessing this one is Brittany's? She's obviously... different. Looks like a four year old drew that.''. You wanted to cry – you could feel yourself tearing up. You said nothing. And just like you saw your mother do countless times, you forced a smile on your lips. He smiled back.

That same night, you cried yourself to sleep.

* * *

Over the years, you get better at it – maybe too much. There's the polite smile when talking to an adult, the respectful submissive smile when your father is talking to you, the fake happy smile for your mother, the ''I'm alright smile'' for your sister and your friends. You learn to ignore your feelings. Look good, act good. You now use it all the time. When you pretend your father didn't yell at you in a druken rage the night before, when you pretend you don't need your mother to give you a hug, when you pretend you don't feel like garbage when Coach Sylverster yells at you and your team.

Sometimes, you think one day, you will actually stop feeling at all if you just keep pretending. You long for that day to come. In the meantime, you fake it. Be good, act good, like your sister. Make your father proud. Do what you need so that he doesn't get mad. Smile.

* * *

The day after your father kicked you out and Mercedes asks if you're okay, you smile and tell her you're fine. Finn's mom is nice. The bed is comfortable. She makes good pancakes. You think the more you add little details, the more believable it will be. For a second, you think it's not going to work, but she doesn't see through you, smiles back and hugs you.

It's the same with everyone else. They ask how you feel, you smile – you make sure to squint your eyes a little, you read somewhere that the eyes reflect a true smile, and you fake that well. They move on and you think they don't know you at all. Maybe they don't even care. You can only blame yourself for not letting them in though.

* * *

The morning after you gave birth to Beth, you didn't dream. When you wake up, you feel numb and as if someone pierced a hole in your heart. You're too tired to cry and all you can do is stare at the white ceiling.

There's a note on your nightstand. ''_Will come by tormorrow and bring you your clothes. Love you. Mom_.'' You don't feel sad that she's not there. She was there when you needed her – for the first time in so long – but you don't want to face her right now. You don't want to face anyone because you don't know how you are supposed to feel. Will people judge you if you say you're glad you gave her away – and you are because you know it's what's best for her. Will they judge you if you say you miss her – and you do because during those few minutes she spent in your arms, she made you forget for a moment all the pain and suffering you've been through. Will they judge you if you don't react at all because right now, you just want to shut your brain and heart off and not feel a thing.

A knock on your door drags you out of your mind. You consider faking sleep to avoid any kind of interaction. The door opens before you can make you decision. It's Rachel. She looks tired. But then, you must look even worse. It will pobably make her feel better, you think. She looks ill at ease. She often does when you two are alone. You don't blame her for it.

''Hey''. She's looking at you with those sad puppy eyes. It reminds of the time people found out about Puck being the father because of her. ''So, I don't know if you heard but... we lost.'' You nod. You knew – Mr Schue had called Puck the night before. But at this moment, you find it hard to care.

She makes an hesitant step towards your bed. ''How are you feeling?'' There it is. The dreaded question. For a moment, you think about lying. But when you open your mouth to speak, the only thing that comes out is a sob. The tears are quick to follow. Finally, you answer. ''I don't know''. It's the truth.

You feel her taking your hand. She looks at you expectantly, probably waiting for you to take it away. You don't. She squeezes it harder. Time passes and neither of you say anything. There's nothing much to say.

''She's gonna have a good life, you know''. You turn your head to look at her. She smiles a bit. ''You did the right thing.''

You smile. It's not a happy smile. Not really. It's not your perfect smile you spent so much time practicing – right now you don't have the strength nor the will to use it. You smile because you know she's right. You smile because you know she was going to grow up in a loving family who wanted her. You smile because you know you didn't fail _her_. You smile a broken smile because you cannot do anything else.

Rachel grips your hand harder and smiles back. You notice she's about to cry and you think she does really understand you.

* * *

The day after Nationals, you feel empty. The house is quiet. Your father is gone. _She_ is gone too. You don't know what to do. You don't want to do anything. Your mother enters in your room. She sits besides you and strokes your hair gently. She asks how you are doing. You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to throw things against the wall. But instead your old instincts kick in. ''Fine. Just tired'', you answer. You smile and she kisses your forehead.

The same night, you can't go to sleep. You keep seing _her_ face, you keep touching your stomach, you can't stop thinking about _her_. The same words keep spinning in your head. ''_She looks like you_.''

* * *

The morning after. You get up, put on work out clothes and run around the block until you feel like you're drowning in your lungs, until you stop thinking.

That evening, when you go to bed, you still feel like you can't breathe.

* * *

The first day of school, you're walking across the hallway with your cold attitude. The student part like the Red Sea. You wear your cheerio uniform like an armour. Later on, as you're walking out of class, Tina stops you and ask if you're feeling alright. You don't tell her. You don't tell her that it takes you twenty minutes in the morning to gather the courage to get up. You don't tell her that sometimes, you think about walking in front of a car to end it all. You don't tell her you are so used to choke back your tears every single second of the day you don't even remember what it felt like last year, when you didn't feel like you could break down at any moment.

You don't tell her. Instead you smile your pefect smile and answer you're fine.

At lunch, you spend a half hour trying to compose yourself in the bathroom.

* * *

A week goes by and you wonder if you're actually going to make it through the year like that. Like a well oiled clock, your life is monotone and repetitive. Your alarm goes off a six in the morning. You make a list of all the good things and bad things you have to do today. You try to keep your focus on the good ones. At six thirty, you're out of bed, and on the good days you don't feel like breaking down when your mother kisses you on the forehead. You smile at her because you don't want to worry her. You smile because you don't know how to talk to her (spending 17 years of her life playing the perfect family will do that to you). You smile because you don't know what else to do.

You spend most of your lunch time in the bathroom. Crying on the bad days, reading on the good ones. Nobody notices. Or if they do, no one says a word.

* * *

Today, a grain of salt makes your clock break. A grain called Rachel Berry.

Your heart jumps in your chest when you hear the bathroom door open. No one is supposed to be here. As quickly as you can, you put your game face on. Cold, emotionless look, straight back, shoulders squared. You stroll out of the stall as if you weren't on the verge of breaking into tears a minute ago. You force yourself not to react when you see that Rachel is the one who walked in. She gives you a small wave, you give her a simple nod before turning your head away.

You focus on keeping your composure as you start washing your hands.

''Quinn, are- are you alright?''

You try to hold back a humourless chuckle. You had heard that so many times, it has no meaning to you anymore. Play time. Places, action. You look into her eye (eye contact is always important, never look like you have someting to hide) as you smile – not too much because she's Rachel after all – and give her your classic ''Of course I'm fine''. For good mesure, you add ''See you in Glee Club''.

You start heading out when you hear her words, and you freeze on the spot.

''You don't have to pretend with me you know.''

Your heart skip a beat. You don't know how to react. Of all the time you felt sadness over your friends not seeing through your mask, you actually never considered you reaction if one of them did.

''I can see how sad you are and I wish there was something I could do. Just-if you ever need to talk or not even talk... I'm here.''

She's hesitant. You understand why. You've never been close friends. Ironically, she is the only who noticed. You don't say a word. You don't know what to say. You just stand there, next to her – your shoulders are almost touching – both facing opposite direction. It's perfect, because you think you couldn't bear looking into her eyes. You couldn't bear her seeing right through you.

You only realize you've taken her hand when you feel her squeezing your fingers. It feels oddly good. Like someone truly cares about you. About what you feel.

You're not sure how long you've been standing there, motionless – it might have been a couple minutes but it felt like more than that. Both of you stay in complete silence. It's not heavy or suffocating, just comfortable. You feel warm tears rolling down your cheeks and your shoulder are shaken with a few muffled sobs.

She squeezes harder.

Your bubble is disrupted by the bell. Your heart sink to your stomach. You take a deep breath and she releases you hand. You wipe your tears and put your HBIC face on. She doesn't move, she doesn't speak.

Right before closing the door, you whisper:

''Thank you.''

* * *

The next day, she's waiting for you in the bathroom.

You feel your lips curl up. It's a small smile but this one is actually reaching you eyes and your heart.

* * *

**Author's note:** There might be a sequel, but I'm not promising anything.


End file.
